


Bygone Love

by chwangdol



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Marriage, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 17:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chwangdol/pseuds/chwangdol
Summary: Yut-lung deals with Sing's marriage with a flight to the Caribbean.





	Bygone Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song by Leslie Cheung.

He doesn’t go to Sing’s wedding. 

The temptation to show up in a gown rivalling the bride is too much, as is the temptation to make a drunken fool of himself and ruin the whole evening.

Sing knows he won’t come. He has to know it’ll be too hard for him, but he still sends an invitation. 

Yutlung keeps it on his bedside table, crumbles it up one night and shoves it in his glass of wine. In the morning it lies on the floor, in a red stain on his new white rug, and he picks it up with all the care in the world and wipes it off on his white robe, smooths it until it’s somewhat resembling the elegant card it once was. 

He buys the most expensive items on their registry, has them sent without his name attached. Sing will know of course, but the idea of him seeing Yutlung’s name on the intricately wrapped presents brings too many possessive and smug thoughts to Yutlung’s devious mind.

He transfers one of his Fashion District condos to Sing’s name, along with a hefty sum to his bank account, and then he purchases a plane ticket to the Bahamas. 

He doesn’t bother with a hotel room. 

Blanca isn’t surprised to see him sitting on the gaudy couch in the living room of his Paradise Island estate. 

He just sighs and goes about showering as normal. Yutlung can smell the seawater on him as he walks by. 

Blanca comes back in a fluffy robe with damp hair, the spa slippers on his feet slap against the tiled ground.

Yutlung is unable to hide a grimace as he takes a drink from the glass of rum he poured himself; Blanca seems amused.

“You never have any wine,” Yutlung complains, and Blanca grunts before answering.

“You never tell me when you’re coming, Sir.”

Bottles clink together as Blanca rummages through the wet bar’s stock.

Yutlung looks down at his own drink with an accusatory scowl, as if it’s the source of all his problems.

“Don’t call me that,” he tells Blanca. It’s punctuated by the sound of Blanca popping open a can of something carbonated.

“Alright, your highness,” he tries again, there’s still amusement in his tone. Yutlung wonders if he can’t read the mood properly or if he thinks teasing an upset Yutlung is funny.

“Not that either,” Yutlung mumbles as Blanca reaches the couch. 

He takes Yutlung’s drink from his hand and replaces it with a taller glass. It fizzes and smells like lime. Yutlung can’t taste any alcohol when he drinks. He wonders if Blanca put any in at all.

“I don’t want to be Yutlung right now,” he continues to tell Blanca as he places two bottles of liquor down on the coffee table in front of them. They’re large, but he held them both in one hand. At a younger age, it would’ve made Yutlung go lightheaded. 

“What should I call you then,” he asks, and takes a sip of Yutlung’s stolen drink with a stoic expression. 

He’s sitting just far enough away that Yutlung could put his feet in his lap if he wanted to, so he does.

“I’ll be Yausi again,” he announces, it sounds odd on his tongue. It’s so plain and meaningless compared to Yutlung, just syllables that roll of his tongue. He knows it had a meaning to him when he chose it. Knows it was some joke he found terribly funny, but he can’t remember any of that now. 

Blanca doesn’t think anything of it. It probably sounds normal to him, probably sounds like any other Chinese name. 

He grabs the rum off the table and pours more in his drink, ignoring Blanca telling him that, “Your drink has vodka in it, not rum.”

In lieu of a response, he takes a long gulp of the drink. There’s a tiny sting now, but it’s still barely there.

“He’s getting married,” Yutlung announces, sighing for the drama and because he hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding so miserable. 

Blanca doesn’t need to ask who. 

Yutlung wonders if Sing sent him an invitation as well. He wonders what he would’ve done if the men who monitored Blanca for him sent back a report saying he was travelling to New York for the wedding. 

He thinks he’d have shown up at Blanca’s hotel room and goaded him into bed. They’d probably be able to fuck through the duration of the ceremony, and then Yutlung would drink until the world went dark and he wouldn’t have to worry about what Blanca or Sing were doing. 

“I sent him a gift,” Blanca tells him. 

So he did get an invitation.

Yutlung wiggles his feet in Blanca’s lap until Blanca’s heavy hand grips one, dwarfing it in his hold. He massages it absentmindedly, and Yutlung sighs his appreciation.

“He told me he started going to therapy,” Yutlung tells him with another long sip of his drink. His mind recollects the image of Sing sitting across from him in near perfect clarity. It had been a private dinner. Yutlung hardly ever made public appearances anymore. 

Blanca puts down his drink and starts massaging Yutlung’s foot with both hands. 

“His therapist convinced him to propose,” Yutlung continues. Blanca gives no sign he’s listening, but Yutlung knows he is. He slips his free foot under the wrap of Blanca’s robe, presses it against his warm and bare upper thigh. 

“He told me to try out therapy too,” Yutlung tells him, kneading Blanca’s skin with his toes. It’s not meant to tease, like it would have been in the past; it’s for Yutlung’s own comfort.

“Did you?” Blanca asks, he’s moved one hand up to massage Yutlung’s ankle and uses his other to grab his drink again. 

“It was worthless,” Yutlung snaps, his anger takes Yutlung by surprise, but Blanca doesn’t react, “The questions were invasive, and she came to the conclusion that I was lying to her and  _ myself _ ,” he finishes with a scoff, and chooses to ignore the small breath of laughter from Blanca.

He looks down at Blanca’s hand on his ankle. It wraps around it easily and then some. He doesn’t mind being small; he tends to enjoy it. He’s glad he got his stature from his mother instead of his father. He’s glad he doesn’t look like his brothers.

The therapist had made another observation, one that made Yutlung’s blood boil even more. 

_ “ _ You grew up fast but also not at all _ ,” _ she had told him, and Yutlung had rolled his eyes. You didn’t need a doctorate in psychology to see that Yutlung had lost out on a childhood. 

He tries now, as he did after that last appointment, to not think about what else she meant by that. 

She meant that he still acts like a petulant child. That he’s in his late twenties but has taken on even less responsibilities than he had at 16. That he chooses to pine after friends and squash down his feelings like a lovesick teenager rather than face someone as a reasonable adult. 

He is small in stature and small in maturity. People used to call him mature for his age, used to think he was much older than he was. Now, people mistake him for a teenager, 18 at the oldest.

Yutlung finishes off his drink with a small hiccup. The carbonated water settles uncomfortably in his stomach. 

Blanca had put on his glasses and now has a book open. His hand is still on Yutlung’s ankle, a warm and heavy comfort.

“Do you prefer women?” Yutlung asks after a long moment of silence. The vodka bottle is too far away for him to grab it without sitting up. 

Blanca looks up from his book at him, eyebrows raised. 

“I’ll never love another woman,” he tells him, voice deep and serious.

“That’s not what I asked,” Yutlung reminds him, and decides he’s not comfortable enough that he can’t get up and grab the vodka. 

The ice in his glass has almost all melted, and the plain vodka is even worse than the rum.

Blanca sighs and puts his book down, sinking further into the couch and spreading his arms along the back. 

Yutlung scoots closer until he’s pressed against his side, swings his legs over one of Blanca’s thighs so he’s half-sitting in his lap. 

Blanca’s arm moves to keep him secure and comfortable.

“I prefer woman sexually, yes,” he finally answers, and Yutlung nods against his chest.

He'd known that already. It was obvious from all the other lovers he's taken.

He feels his eyes growing wet and shaky and takes a long gulp of vodka to replace the sadness with the sting of alcohol on his throat.

Blanca's hand plays with the ends of Yutlung's hair that fan over his back.

“Do you think he would have loved me if I were a woman?” Yutlung asks, barely above a whisper. It's a miracle he keeps his voice from shaking.

He feels rather than hears Blanca's sigh.

“You are more than comfortable being a man,” he reminds him, and he’s right. Yutlung doesn’t care when people mistook him for a woman, but he has also never thought of himself as one. 

His gender has never been a source of concern for him. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Yutlung grumbles. He’s used to Blanca sidestepping questions, but it never gets any less annoying.

“He does love you,” Blanca tells him. His voice is firm and he gives Yutlung a look that says  _ “that’s all you’re getting.” _

Yutlung doesn’t say anything in response. They’ve already had this argument, and he knows Blanca’s waiting for him to admit the severity of his feelings for Sing.

“I’m prettier than her anyways,” Yutlung sighs, “Probably better in bed too.”

He finishes off his vodka and tosses the glass onto the empty couch cushion. It teeters dangerously close to the edge before settling in the crack of the armrest.

“She probably doesn’t throw people’s dishes,” Blanca deadpans, but Yutlung ignores him.

He snuggles in closer to Blanca’s chest, smiling when his wiggling causes the tie of Blanca’s rob to loosen. 

“Sing deserves someone that isn’t full of hate,” he tells Blanca, nuzzling into the bare chest the robe is slowly revealing, “He deserves someone easy to love, someone with a mundane past.”

He reaches down to Blanca’s lap to stroke his soft cock, but both his wrists are gathered up into one of Blanca’s hands.

“I’m not letting you use me,” Blanca informs him as he takes off his readers with his free hand and sets them down gently on the side table.

Yutlung’s expression shifts to a glare, “Because it’s  _ so _ bad for you.”

Blanca doesn’t acknowledge his argument. Instead, he man handles Yutlung up and into his arms. 

Yutlung clings to his robe despite his anger. His skin smells faintly of coconut, and Yutlung hates how it pairs with the musky smell of Blanca’s skin.

Blanca drops him on a large bed. The bedroom is decorated in light tans and soft blues, and the french doors of the balcony are open. The ocean breeze is starting to cool with the promise of night. 

The ocean smells so different here than in New York. It’s fresh and there’s almost a sweetness to it mixing with the salt. It makes Yutlung ache for home, but his drunken mind is unsure if that means New York or Hong Kong. 

“It doesn’t smell like fish,” Yutlung comments, and when he looks up, Blanca has tightened his robe again. 

There’s a look of pity in his eyes, and Yutlung shoots up and slaps him on instinct.

His hand hurts after the impact, and he realizes Blanca could’ve easily caught his wrist and stopped him. 

The pity on Blanca’s face is replaced with amusement. 

Yutlung grumbles in disappointment before tugging his oversized polo up over his head. He makes a show of tossing it on the floor, and then he’s shoving at his linen shorts.

Blanca doesn’t move from where he’s standing, and Yutlung’s at a loss on how to get him to lay down. 

He wants to order Blanca to fuck him, but instead he whines out, “Kiss me.”

In his drunk state, he misses the way Blanca’s face goes soft before he joins Yutlung’s naked form on the bed.

His large hands push back Yutlung’s hair and frame his face before he presses their lips together.

It’s gentle. And wet. 

Yutlung doesn’t know why it’s wet, but then he lets out a sob when Blanca pulls away.

Blanca wipes at his tears with the sleeves of his robe, and he pulls at the covers and maneuvers Yutlung until he’s tucked in. 

Yutlung doesn’t let go as he climbs in beside him. 

The robe is an unwelcome separator. He wants to feel bare skin against his own, not Turkish cotton. 

It at least does nothing to stop Blanca’s suffocating body heat from engulfing Yutlung. He tucks himself against his broad chest and lets him block out the breeze.

“ _ He thinks me broken,” _ he whispers against him, even if Blanca knew Cantonese he wouldn’t be able to discern his blubbering, “ _ I’d rather him see me as a monster. _ ”

Blanca’s large hand runs through the loose tangles of his hair.

“I wish he wasn’t such a good person,” Yutlung tells him in English, peeking up at him, “I wish he was the kind of guy to forget his wife for a week or two,” he rests his forehead back down on Blanca’s chest, “It’d be so easy. I could have Hong Kong, and she could have New York. She would never even know.”

Blanca curls tighter around him, resting his chin on top of Yutlung’s head. Yutlung thinks it’s an attempt to shut him up. He wishes he’d try something else.

“Were that the case,” Blanca begins; Yutlung can feel his breath as he speaks, “You wouldn’t be in love with him.”

A stew of anger and sadness boils inside of him. He wants to slap Blanca again. He hates hearing it aloud. 

He never thought he’d be capable of loving someone. 

He doesn’t want to be in love. It makes him vulnerable in the worst of ways.

With a final choked out son, his eyes flutter close, and sleep finds him easily but not for long.

Blanca’s arm is a deadweight on top of him when he grumbles awake. His head feels two sizes too small for his brain, and he has a horrible taste in his mouth.

It’s an effort to wiggle out from Blanca’s embrace, but he manages.

Outside of the covers (and away from Blanca’s body heat) the room is cold enough to give him goosebumps. 

He finds another robe in Blanca’s closet; it swallows him completely and makes him feel like a little kid playing dress up.

His bags are still in the living room, and he rummages through them carelessly until he finds the bag of toiletries. 

He goes through his nightly routine and then returns to dig through his bags until he finds the small collection of pill bottles. 

Blanca’s fridge is as organized and colorful as expected, and he picks the plainest of the bottled waters inside. The water is ice cold against his just-brushed teeth, and he finishes half the bottle before taking the Klonopin.

The beach house is eerily quiet in the kitchen. No windows open for the sound of the ocean to sneak in. His feet feel numb against the tiled floor.

It doesn’t take long for his thoughts to cloud over. He braids his hair lazily until he finally feels the fuzzy calm he was looking for. 

On the way back to the bedroom his thoughts betray him, and he remembers Sing’s disappointment the first time he noticed Yutlung was popping pills he didn’t have prescriptions for, ignoring the warning labels and directions. He had laughed in response, reminded Sing that he’d been studying drugs, both natural and man-made, his entire life. 

Sing wasn’t happy with that response. 

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Sing had told him, quiet and defeated. Yutlung hates it when Sing talks to him like that. He prefers him angry and ready to fight.

He wonders when Sing replaced his anger for pity. 

Back in the bedroom he pushes off the robe, leaves it on the floor like his clothes from last night. He runs his hands over Blanca’s wardrobe and stops at the softest feeling shirt. The sleeves go past his elbows and it falls down to his mid-thigh.

Blanca’s spread out in his sleep, arms splayed across the bed, just short of the full width. Yutlung pushes the covers down and drapes himself over Blanca instead, tangling their legs together and pressing his cheek to the warmth of Blanca’s bare chest. 

The next time he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky and he feels a book resting on his back. 

He wonders if this is what domestic life feels like.

**Author's Note:**

> There was meant to be smut in this, but it didn't come naturally. 
> 
> Also on the mention of Yausi being a bullshit Chinese name: I know next to nothing about Cantonese, but [this tumblr post](http://pekorosu.tumblr.com/post/178848334368) explains some of the meaning behind the Chinese names in BF. 
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/babypeche)


End file.
